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SEEMON 



PREACHED AT 



KING'S CHAPEL, BOSTON, 



.TXJlVIi: 3, lSti7: 



REING THE SUNDAY FOLLOWING THE DECEASE OF 



MR. THOMAS BULFINCH. 



ANDREW Pl^EABODY. 



J' R ix T /■; I) Ji r i: k q t ' e s t. 



BOSTON: 

1867. 

J. II. EASTBURN'S PRESS. 



4 



We are too little apt to recognize and confess 
how much of them there is that remains to ns, 
how mnch that could not die, how much that will 
grow even more vivid and precious as the years 
roll on, and will verify with an ever increasing 
fulness the words, " He, being dead, yet speaketh." 

Let us now consider some of the ways in which 
we, who lament the absence from our sight of the 
faithful and excellent, may hope to find these 
words fulfilled. 

In the first place, I think that we understand 
the characters of our friends better after they 
have gone from us, than while they were with us, 
and that they thus speak to us in their examples 
with greater precision and emphasis. Take the 
instance of one whom none knew but to praise 
and love. To joraise and love is not to under- 
stand. The life may have been one of incessant 
and various occupation, and the transactions and 
utterances of every day may have been regarded 
with warm approval, and have ministered to the 
growth of the most sincere and fond afiection ; but 
they have been beheld in themselves rather than in 
their motives and princij^les, and as separate inci- 
dents rather than as the expression and outflow 



of a nobly framed and consistent character. Thus, 
as we pass through the streets of a town or city, 
the eye takes in single objects, but not the site, or 
plan, or general features. For these we must 
seek an elevated position, from which minute 
details Avill disappear or dwindle, while great out- 
lines and characteristics will be plain and clear. 
Death gives us this elevation as to human char- 
acter. We before knew, it may he, that the life 
was beautiful and lovely ; we now see why it was 
so, — what was its pervading spirit, what its sacred 
law\s of speech and action, what the great lessons 
of duty that it teaches, — the golden threads which 
held the whole together, and gave symmetry and 
unity to the endlessly varied forms of utterance 
and activity. And how intense the emphasis 
•which death gives to the cardinal virtues of one 
whom we had tenderly loved, and especially to 
the one predominant trait, be it conscientiousness, 
or gentleness, or fortitude, or courage, or benevo- 
lence, or spirituality ! We now see how that trait 
branched out in various directions, assumed differ- 
ent phases, gave energy and vividness to the other 
virtues, at once fostering them, and in turn fostered 
by them ; and a voice comes to us from the yet 



recent, and in after years from the still cherished 
grave, commending to us that special aspect of 
goodness, urging it upon us as the due tribute of 
undying human love no less than of piety, and 
rebuking us for every departure from it. 

Nor let it be said that this j)eculiar sacredness 
attached to any single trait of excellence is adapted 
to make one-sided and deficient characters. For, 
in the first place, the virtues are a sociable sister- 
hood, and cannot well live apart, so that one of 
them sedulously wooed, and won, brings in all her 
sisters with her, she remaining only first among 
equals. And, secondly, the individuality which 
distinguishes one good man from another, and 
amono; the most excellent makes one star differ 
from another, when not in the degree, in the kind 
of glory, consists in the predominance of some 
sinijle virtue wdiile the others are not wanting;, 
and in the peculiar tone and grouping created 
by this predominance. 

It is, therefore, an infinite gain and benefit, if 
death has so endeared to us any one form or 
aspect of goodness, any special cluster of Christian 
graces, that we cannot contentedly remain in that 
regard defective or faulty; for while this form, or 



aspect, or cluster may determine the order and 
proportion of our virtues, it will not suffer us in 
any department of duty to be barren or unfruitful. 
In the next place, our friends who have gone 
before us to Heaven speak especially to us of the 
need and worth of Christian faith iind piety, and 
no living words can equal in impressiveness the 
tacit pleading of death. When a life closes, the 
inquiry which seems to be aw^akened at once in 
every heart, even in the irreligious and the reck- 
less, is, "Was the departed prepared to die?" I 
have been struck with this, when the great men 
of our land — high officials, renowned orators, 
accomplished statesmen — have been called away. 
The first communications that circulate in the 
public prints are dying words and manifestations 
as to relio:ion, and whatever incidents in the whole 

CD " 

past career can have any bearing on the religious 
character; and either the due eulogy upon a 
Christian life and spirit, or the honest, though 
feeble attempt to piece out a rainbow over the 
death-flood from shreds and particles of half-lumi- 
nous mist, precedes all discussion of public merits 
and services. I have often been most painfully 
impressed by this tendency in private circles. 



where the departed had manifested no special 
regard for religion, but friends have tortured into 
grounds of hope the utterances of weariness of life 
drawn out bj j^'^^ii^? ^i' momentary exclamations, or 
isolated virtuous acts, or passive admissions of the 
truth, in fine, everything that did not bear on its 
face an absolutely irreligious import. But when 
one, who has indeed lived as a Christian, passes 
away, what comfort can equal that which flows 
from the assurance that our friend has found in 
death the very gate of Heaven ? How lovingly do 
we dwell on the early consecration to the Saviour, 
— the marks of his lineage and kindred, — the ex- 
pressions of faith unfeigned and hope anchored 
within the veil, — the traits of Christian fidelity 
that made the life luminous, — the path which we 
can now see reaching on from the death-hour and 
through the death-shadow to the assembly of the 
redeemed and the presence of the glorified Ee- 
deemer ! We then feel and own that relioion is 
indeed the one thing needful for the mortal who 
is to put on immortality, — that there is nothing 
in life so precious as that which fits one to die in 
peace and hope, — that all things are to be account- 
ed as worthless in comparison with that in the 



aim and spirit through which one wins Christ, and 
is found in Him. There is thus impressed upon 
us a profounder sense than comes to us through 
any other agency, of the infinite importance of 
personal piety, — of a soul at peace with God, and 
sustained by an immortal hope. 

Has this lesson been sent home to any of our 
hearts by God's death-angel? Has there gone 
up, in our grief, fervent gratitude that our friend 
was one whom the Lord loved, and for whom 
death was but translation beyond the power of 
death? Oh let it be our life-lesson, — our direc- 
tory for all time to come, — our preparation for 
our own last hour and closing scene. Over our 
lifeless forms there will be like solemn thought 
and anxious mquiry. What our surviving friends 
will most yearn to know will be whether we fall 
asleep in Jesus. Shall we die, and leave no sign ? 
Oh let it be our life-aim and life-work so to order 
our conversation here that there shall be only 
trust and hope for us when we die, and that what 
is felt for us shall be only the counterpart of the 
fulness of joy into which we awake from the 
death-slumber. 



• 
10 



Again, our friends who have gone before us to 
Heaven speak to us of the reality of Heaven. 
We may believe the promises of God, but never 
with so realizing a faith as when those who have 
been unspeakably dear to us have gone from us 
to inherit the promises. If there were a shade 
of scepticism before, it now passes aw^ay; for we 
feel assured that so much excellence and loveli- 
ness cannot have died, — that one so admirably 
fitted for life cannot have been stricken from the 
ranks of the living, — that so true and pure and 
high an education of the spirit cannot have been 
matured and perfected for the earth-clods to 
cover, — that such powers of usefulness cannot 
have been developed, except for a larger, loftier 
sphere, — that a stewardship of earthly trusts so 
faithfully discharged camiot but have been merged 
in a stewardship of wider scope and for nobler 
uses. We always think of such a friend as in 
Heaven ; and one such argument can withstand 
the assault of every doubt and of every form of 
sophistry. I well knew a very old man of marked 
acumen and ability, who, from early fanaticism, 
passed, through a long ordeal of scepticism, to a 
more rational fiith in his declining years, but 



11 



who, when he had lost his hold on almost every- 
thing else that was sacred^ still held unchanged 
the belief in immortality, sustained by the grave 
and memory of his devout parents, and was wont 
through life to repeat and apply to himself the 
line of Cowper, 

"Tlie son of parents passed into tlie skies." 

Nor is this all. Not only the belief, but the imag- 
ination is quickened through the ministry of death. 
Heaven seems nearer to us, and assumes more 
lifelike forms to our thought, Avhen it is the home 
of those who have here been the life and joy of 
our household-circles. It is no longer the far- 
away, dimly conceived possibility that it may 
have been when oar affections had little or no 
special property there ; but the veil is at times 
Avithdrawn and never wholly replaced ; luminous 
forms, the counterparts of those no longer with 
us in tli^ body, pass in clear vision before us, 
and wonted voices cry, "Come up hither." Our 
affections will not part with their treasure, but 
mount where the beloved have passed in, follow 
where they have gone before, and, in vivid hope, 
take possession where they had marked the way. 



12 



There is, also, a surviving influence of the pure 
and true, the devout and faithful, which remains 
with us when they go from us, and which time 
often only confirms and deepens. At first, the 
feeling is that they have wholly passed away, — 
that the voice which has been so blessedly efficient 
to counsel, comfort and gladden, is forever silent, — 
that for the presence withdrawn there is only 
utter and cheerless desolation. But, as we return 
to the ordinarj^ routine of life, we find that the 
spirit of the departed is at our side. The accus- 
tomed voice pulses upon the inward ear. What 
the friend separated from us would have said, 
the well-known tone and style of sentiment, 
opinion and principle, the earnest preference in 
this direction, the strong disesteem in that, — all 
come vividly to our thought, and are, if possible, 
a more sacred law to us, because impressed by the 
solemn sanction of death and memory. An even, 
uniform, thoroughly disciplined charax^ter thus 
makes itself felt years and years after the seal of 
death has been stamj)ed upon it, and an unseen 
guidance, restraint, support, help and comfort 
thus often complete and crown the earthly work 
of those who seem to have been taken before 



13 



their time, and to have left ca hirge j)art of their 
work undone. 

With these thoughts I cannot help connecting 
that of a still more intimate conversance between 
the dead and the living. Heaven may be a place, 
for aught we know to the contrary ; but it is still 
more a state, and one of its prime elements must 
needs be an enlarged power of perception, cogni- 
zance and activity. It must be Heaven wherever 
the pure and happy spirit dwells, or moves, or 
stays. And must not the deathless love of those 
who go from us to the Lord keep them virtually 
w^ith us, cognizant of what concerns our true w^ell- 
being, watchful of our path, our trials and tempta- 
tions, our success and progress ? Were this 
wanting, would not Heaven be less than Heaven ? 
Can Heaven have a greater joy than this, when 
surviving kindred remain in sympathy with the 
departed, and those on either side of the death- 
river move on with even step, on the same path, 
toward the same goal, — those on earth assured of 
the fellowship of their friends who have passed on; 
those in Heaven blending their prayer and praise 
with the uttered and the voiceless worship of those 
who have not yet put ofi' the earthly tabernacle? 



•l4 



We know not how far God's spiritual adminis- 
tration may be, like his outward Providence, 
through agents or mediators. But if there be 
guardian and ministrant angels, hosts of God that 
encamp around us, messengers from him to the 
souls of men, who are so likely to stand in that 
office to us as those who, while they lived on earth, 
were as angels of God to us, — whose ministries for 
us were those of heavenly purity, faithfulness, and 
love ? Thus may they, being dead, speak to us 
in breathings of peace, and strength, and joy, — in 
influences that energize and guide, comfort and 
gladden, — in messages from the Father to the 
souls which he has bound with them in a union 
too sacred to be suspended even by death. 

Among the dead, who, by their faith and piety, 
still and ever speak, I know that your thoughts, 
as well as my own, have rested on one whom you 
have seldom, and I, till now, never missed from his 
accustomed seat in this sanctuary ; in whose life 
we have seen the beauty of holiness, and whose 
example of Christian excellence death Avill, I trust, 
embalm in enduring life-likeness in the memory 
of all of us who revered and loved him. Though 
the eulogy of private merit is seldom becoming in 



15 



the pulpit, I know you would be unwilling that 
he should ])iiss from you without special com- 
memoration. Attached to this Church through 
an honored ancestry, who, for several successive 
generations, were worshippers and office-bearers 
here, — separated from your communion only 
during a few years of early manhood passed in 
a distant city, — bearing an important part in the 
several revisions of your liturgy, — loving your 
discipline and order of divine service as pre- 
eminently true to the teachings and spirit of our 
common Christian faith, — the cherished friend of 
all your pastors since your separation from the 
English Church, — he can have left none more 
intimately conversant, or more closely identified 
with your history. 

I cannot sj)eak at length of his pure taste, 
his generous culture, his high literary attainments, 
his skill and success as an author. These won 
for him distinguished praise and honor ; and what 
he accomplished so admirably in his leisure hours 
might well awaken the regret that his ambition 
was not equal to his ability, or that scholarly 
pursuits had not been his business instead of his 
recreation. 



IG 



But, in this sacred presence, I would rather 
remind you of those things in which we have 
seen in him the spirit of his Divine Master, — of 
his tender conscientiousness, his serenity and sweet- 
ness of temper, his heart-coined courtesy of mien 
and manner, his reverent love of God's Word and 
ordinances, his diffusive benevolence, manifested 
not only in gifts more than proportioned to his 
ability, but in look, and word, and deed, in pro- 
tracted and self-denying endeavor, in every form 
and way in which he could make those around 
him happier and better. Faults he may have had; 
but who can name them ? Have we known one 
who seemed more entirely blameless ? — one of 
whom, as we look back on his finished course, we 
can say with a richer fulness of meaning, " Mark 
the perfect man, and behold the upright ?" 

Ever on the watch for, or, I would rather say, by 
the instinct of his religious consciousness ever spon- 
taneously aware of, the opportunities of kindness, 
he made his daily intercourse a ministry of Chris- 
tian love. His careful and considerate offices of 
friendship, in timely counsel and genial sympathy, 
have been unspeakably precious, not only to those 
who could proffer the title of kindred or established 



17 



intimacy, but to very many whose need was their 
only claim. There are those who owe all their 
success in life to his early encouragement, his ad- 
vice and instruction at forming or critical periods 
of their career, his helping hand over steep and 
rough passages of their way. In his modesty, he 
loved to feel himself a debtor to his friends, that 
he might seem to be discharging, wdiile conferring 
an obligation. So entirely had thought for the 
happiness of others become the pervading habit of 
his life, that on his death-bed one of his last inqui- 
ries w^as, wdio amono- his friends would be most 
gratified by the gift of some beautiful spring- 
flow^ers gathered by loving hands to be laid upon 
his pillow. 

We cannot but recoL>:nize in him a rare combina- 
tion of the amenities and graces which constitute 
that very highest style of man, the Christian gentle- 
man. I use the word gentleriicm, because to my 
mind it bears even a sacred significance, and I 
would that it were employed to designate only that 
polifeness — at once lofty and lowly, self-respecting 
and deferential, heart-felt and heart-meant, shaping 
look, word, tone, and manner from the inspiration 
of an all-embracing charity — which is derived from 



18 



communion ^vitIl Him in whom gentleness in all 
human relations was the type and token of the 
incarnate Divinitj^ This Christian gentleness, this 
urhanity betokening a clenizenship of the heavenly 
city, so characterized our friend, that one could 
hardly look upon his clear brow and transparent, 
benignant countenance, still less enter into even 
transient conversation with him, and not take 
knowledge of him that he had been with Jesus. 

While we mourn his departure in the midst of 
his usefulness, we yet cannot but be thankful that 
he was called hence while his removal could be 
so sadly felt by so many hearts, — before the light 
of life had begun to grow dim, or its power to 
become enfeebled. We would not, God willing, 
that to a volume of life so fairly written, and 
rounded to so beautiful a close, there should have 
been a melancholy appendix of decline and infirm- 
ity. Above all, we are thankful in the assurance 
that for one who so made it " Christ to live," it 
must have been " gain to die." Brethren, let us 
be "followers of them who throuti-h faith ' and 
patience inherit the i:)romises." 



Ix the death of Thomas Bulfinch ends, for this world, 
a beautiful, unpretending, consistent Christian life. With 
talents that might easily have made him distinguished, he 
was always modest and unambitious. With uncommon 
capacity for business, seeing clearly the means by which 
those about him became rich, and, for many years, within 
reach of a higher salary and opportunities of wealth, he 
preferred a moderate income, Avith leisure for thought and 
reading. Seemingly a solitary bachelor, he was always 
stretching out a helping paternal hand to young men, who 
had no claim upon him but that of a common humanity. 
For many hours of every day, occupied with the details 
of trade, his real day was given to study, to the highest 
poetry of the ancients and the moderns, and to the history 
of the thoughts and deeds of great men and heroes, not as 
an idle amusement, but that he might gather thence facts 
and principles for the guidance of the young to the more 
complete understanding of much of the best of English 
literature. Living in the world and with those occupied 
w^ith worldly affairs, his favorite study was the Scriptures. 

The life of such a man ought not to be suffered to be 
forgotten, or to be remembered by only a few intimate 
friends. It will be a pleasant duty, and it cannot be 
unprofitable, to trace some of the influences under which 
his character was formed; to inquire who were his 
ancestors, and what were the circumstances in which his 
earliest years were passed. 



20 



The fiicts of his life are given by himself, witli liis 
characteristic modesty, in the CLass-book for liis College 
Class of 181-1:, of which he was Secretary. 

Thomas Bulfinch, son of Charles Bulfinch, (H.U. 1781,) 
was born on the 15th July, 1796, at Newton, Mass., where 
his parents wei'C temporarily residing, their home being 
in Boston, in which city they and their progenitors had 
dwelt from almost the earliest settlement of the colony. 
He was fitted for College at the Boston Latin School, and 
at Exeter Academy. 

After leaving Colleoe he served as Usher at the 
Boston Public Latin School, of which our brother Gould 
had been appointed Head Master, a few months before. 
Here he continued fourteen months, and by the process 
of teaching, deepened the impression of his College 
studies. 

At this time, (1815,) the Avar with England came to a 
close, and the revival of trade in all its branches held out 
temptations to embark in what seemed to promise a speedy 
progress to competency and wealth. He yielded to the 
temptation, and went into the store of his elder brother, 
where he spent two years. In 1818, his father being 
appointed Architect of the Capitol, at Washington, he 
accompanied the family to that city, and there carried on 
business for six years. Li 1825, he returned to Boston 
and formed a partnership with Jose|)h Coolidge, (H. U. 
1817,) which terminated in 1832. For five years more 
he pursued the same occupation, but with poor success, 
and was well contented to accept a clerkship in the Mer- 
chants Bank of Boston, in 1837, which place he now holds. 



21 



His tastes had always been literary, wliicli may in part 
account for his ill success in commerce. His occupation 
in the Bank allowed leisure, which he devoted to conge- 
nial pursuits. 

He became Secretary of the Boston Society of Natural 
History, and for six years assiduously kept the records of 
its proceedings. This led to a certain degree of acquaint- 
ance with the Natural Sciences, and to the formation of 
valuable intimacies. 

In 1850, accident led him to a comparison of the version 
of the Psalms used in the Prayer Book with more modern 
versions. He pursued the investigation, and, in 1853, 
published a small volume, entitled "Hebrew Lyrical 
History, — or Select Psalms, arranged in the order of 
the events to which they relate, with Introductions and 
Notes." 

This work, though but little noticed by the public, yet, 
being commended by judicious friends, Mr. Bulfinch was 
encouraged to the further use of his pen; and in 1855 
published " The Age of Fable," a compend of Mythology. 
This book was popular, and still holds Its place In the 
bookstores. 

A third work appeared In 1858. It was called "The 
Age of Chivalry,'' and attempted to do for the legends of 
the middle ages what the former work had done for those 
of Pagan antiquity. The stories of King Arthur and his 
knights were re-produced from old English literature, 
with selections and modifications required by modern 
taste. The sale of this Avork Avas also satisfactory. 

The next of Mr. B's publications was entitled "The 
Boy Inventor," a memoir of INIatthew Edwards, a youth 



99 



of humble station but of rare endowments, in whose career, 
arrested by an early death, Mr. B. took a warm interest. 

So ends the notice in the Chiss-book. 

"The Boy Inventor" appeared in 1860. The interest 
which Mr. Bulfinch took in the youth whose story he has 
here related, may be inferred from the facts that he had 
Matthew's body buried in the family lot at Mt. Auburn, 
and directed that his own grave should be next to that of 
of this beloved pupil. 

Nor was Matthew the only young man whom he aided 
in the endeavor to obtain an education. Two others are 
known, to whom his assistance has been scarcely less impor- 
tant, and there Avere several other less prominent instances. 

His "Legends of Charlemagne" appeared in 1863; 
the beautiful collection called "Poetry of the Age of 
Fable," in the same year; "Shakspeare adapted for 
Eeading Classes," in 1865; and "Oregon and Eldorado, 
or Romance of the Rivers," in 1866. 

At the time of his decease he had made some progress 
in the preparation of a Avork on the Heroes and Sages of 
Greece and Rome. 



Our certain knowledge of the family of Mr. Bulfinch 
begins with Adino Bulfinch, a sail maker, by trade, and 
a successful man and an influential citizen. He was chosen 
Surveyor of Highways in Boston, in 1706, and again in 
1708. 

Thomas Bulfinch, his son, studied medicine in Paris, and 
returned, in 1722, to Boston, where he thenceforth resided 



23 



as a Physician, lie married Judith Colman, daughter 
of John Cohiian, a distinguished merchant. Another of 
Cohiian's daughters married Peter Chardon. The houses 
built bv the two bridegrooms stood, side by side, in what 
is now Bowdoin Square; Dr. Bulfinch's, where the Cool- 
idge House now stands, and Mr. Chardon's, where the 
Baptist Church is, at the corner of Chardon Street. 

Thomas Bulfinch, son of the preceding, studied medi- 
cine in Edinburgh, where he was an inmate of the family 
of Dr. Robertson, afterwards the historian, of about the 
same age, and his intimate comj)anion. Dr. Bulfinch 
practiced, like his father, in Boston, and became distin- 
guished as a physician. He married Susan, second 
daughter of Charles Apthorp, Avho was boi'n in England, 
in 1698, came to this country, and was an eminent 
merchant, and paymaster and commissary of the British 
forces here. His monument is in King's Chapel. By 
his wife, Grizzell Eastwicke, he had a family of eighteen 
children. 

Dr. Bulfinch held the office of Justice of the Peace, 
from the royal government, and afterwards from the 
republican. He took the liberal side in politics, but 
remained in Boston during the siege ; and from the roof 
of his house in Bowdoin Square, his son Charles, then a 
boy, witnessed the battle of Bunker Hill. Dr. Bulfinch 
was Senior Warden of King's Chapel after the Revolution, 
and was influential in the settlement of Dr. Freeman, to 
whom, at his ordination, he delivered a Bible, bidding 
him make that the guide of his instructions. 

Charles Bulfinch, son of Dr. Thomas B., and father of 
our lamented friend, was born August 8th, 1703. . He 



24 



graduated at Harvard in 1781, then travelled in Europe, 
where he developed and cultivated a taste for architecture. 
On his return, he engaged in business, in partnership with 
Mr. Joseph Barrell ; and they, with some others, organ- 
ized the expedition of the shi])s Columbia and Washington 
to the North-west Coast, which resulted in the discovery 
of Columbia River, as related in the beginning of "Oregon 
and Eldorado." 

Iiiduloiiifv his architectural taste, Charles Bulfinch gave 
plans for various buildings in Boston, among which, at an 
early period, were the State House, the Theatre, long- 
since destroyed, and the Catholic Church in Franklin 
Street. There are still in the possession of the famil^^, a 
gold medal, presented to him by the proprietors of the 
Theatre, and a silver urn, from the congregation of the 
Catholic Church, in acknowledgment of his plans, which, 
in these instances, appear to have been gratuitous. 
Besides his occupation as an architect, he was for 
many years Chairman of the Selectmen of Boston and 
Superintendent of Police. 

The mother of Thomas Bulfinch was Hannah Apthorp, 
eldest daughter of John Apthorp and of Hannah Green- 
leaf Apthorp, who was daughter of Stephen Greenleaf, 
High Sheriff of Suffolk under the royal government. 
John Apthorp Avas son of Charles Apthorp, already 
spoken of While Hannah Apthorp was still very 
young, her parents, intending to spend a winter at the 
South, for Mr. Apthorp's health, embarked for Charleston, 
S. C, on board a vessel which was never heard of more. 

She and her sister Frances, afterwards Mrs. Charles 
Vaiighan, and her infant brother, the late Colonel John 



T. Aptliorp, were brouglit up by their grandfather, 
Sheriff Greenleaf, a fine old gentleman, with some of the 
sternness and formality of the old school, but with all its 
integrity and firm principle too. He had spent his early 
life in the performance of every social and domestic virtue, 
and he devoted his old age to the education of his grand- 
children. And never, perhaps, was children's education 
more faithfully attended to. The elevated character and 
tone of thought, and the pure and finished style both in 
prose and poetry, as Avell as the accomplishments, of 
the two granddaughters, show that nothing had been 
omitted. They dwelt in his house on Tremont Street, 
Avhere the United States Court House now stands, and 
Mrs. Balfinch remembered, in her old age, how she and 
the other children were sent, during the siege of Boston, 
to the North End, as a safer part of the town, for, as the 
British troops were encamped on the Common, that point 
was the especial mark of the American artillery. 

She married her cousin, Charles Bulfinch, November 
20th, 1788, and had eleven children, of whom seven 
attained maturity. 

Mrs. Bulfinch is represented by all who remember her, 
and none who knew her can forget, as a noble woman, 
of delicate, native dignity, of the most refined and charm- 
ing manners, with a sweet low voice which won and 
captivated all Avho approached her, especially children, 
and seemed to say, come, my child, if there is anything 
to grieve you, tell me, and let me help to remove it. It 
was impossible to resist her, and she went about as a 
ministering angel, softening all asperities and reconciling 
differences, a true peacemaker, persuading those to con- 

4 



26 



tinue friends, who, but for her, might have ceased to be so. 
She was naturally a person of great vivacity and exuber- 
ance of spirits; but, before the birth of Thomas, tliese 
had been tempered in the discipline of Providence, by 
the loss of several children and of a large fortune, and 
only showed themselves in the liveliness, often brilliancy, 
of her conversation and of her letters. She sang very 
sweetly, and played upon the piano and upon the guitar 
with taste and skill. After the loss of her fortune, she 
went little into general society, but devoted herself, in a 
circle of dear and admiring friends, to the duties of her 
home, and especially to the happiness of her husband, and 
the "temporal and eternal interests of her children." 

Mr. Bullinch's father was a man of taste and liberal 
culture. Besides the ofhce of Chairman of the Selectmen 
of Boston, which he held for twenty-one successive years, 
he was, for thirteen years, Architect of the Capitol at 
Washington. He was, in the latter part of his life, of 
very retired habits, and a great reader, but only of the 
choicest books. 

Thomas Bulfinch entered Harvard College in 1810, 
and had a respectable rank in the class to which belonged 
the historian Prescott, Pev. Drs. Greenwood and Lamson, 
Judge Merrick, and other distinguished men, several of 
whom are still living. One who knew him well and who 
is a nice judge of character, says of him, "In college, as 
ever afterwards, he was one of the gentlest, kindest, purest 
men I ever knew; indeed, I am Inclined to think, abso- 
lutely the most so. This was partly owing, I suppose, to 
his happy natural constitution, which made all excesses 



and irrcti'ularlties as offensive to his taste as to liis 
conscience. 

"Such being the character of our friend, you will not 
need to be informed that he took no part in college dissi- 
pations or disorders. His rank in the class as a scholar 
was very respectable ; and would have been higher, if his 
ingrained modesty had permitted him to assert it. The 
branches in which he excelled were classical learning and 
English literature, — branches which he continued to 
cultivate to the end of his life, and in which he had few 
superiors." 

The President of the College at that time was Dr. 
Kirkland. Two of the professors were the fine Latin 
scholar Levi Frisbie, and the admirable, unsurpassed 
lecturer John Farrar, the latter of whom always enter- 
tained an affection and a high regard for Mr. Bulfinch. 
These were men of genius; very unlike, but all of 
enlarged views, of warm and genial feelings, of high and 
generous character, of courteous manners. Who shall 
measure the influence of such men upon susceptible 
natures in the forming period of youth? 

Just before the class left College, in 1816, one of their 
number, Benjamin Apthorp Gould, a most respectable 
scholar, was chosen Master of the Latin School in Boston. 
This appointment was an event of great moment, not 
only to the prosperity of that school, but to the advance 
of classical learning throughout New England. The 
standard immediately rose in the school, not only of 
scholarship, but, what is fiir more important, of good 
manners, manliness and moral excellence. To this change 
Mr. Gould largely contributed by his own pure and 



28 



elevated qualities as a man, and liis high character as 
a gentleman. 

And he found a fit associate in ISIr. Bulfinch, one of 
whose pupils in that school has still a clear remembrance 
of his gentleness and fidelity, and of feeling himself drawn 
towards learning and excellence by his winning manners. 
Mr. Bidfinch continued to have a remarkable aptness 
to teach and fondness for teaching, and was, probably 
always, certainly in the latter part of his life, very success- 
ful as a teacher, as he showed in several instances, by 
aiding gratuitously and most efficiently the eiforts of de- 
serving young men. His patience, his skill in the use of 
language, the. consequent clearness of his explanations, 
his extensive knowledge, and, above all, his sincere and 
disinterested kindness, never fiiiled to attract and interest 
his pupils. If he had devoted his life to this vocation, 
there can be little doubt that he would have had dis- 
tinguished success. 

While Mr. Bulfinch was usher in the Latin School, 
Edward Everett, Avho had just been appointed professor 
of Greek literature at Cambridge, set sail for Europe, on 
his visit to Greece, On his departure, Mr. Bulfinch 
addressed to him, in the measures and spirit of Hoi-ace, 
a Latin Ode, wdiich may be taken as a fair specimen of 
his classical scholarship. The translation, in the note, 
discloses its parentage by the initials attached to it. 

Au E. E. TEIl GrECIAM ITEH FACIENTEM. 

(J tu, bcat;e sortis et anliuv, 
Qui nunc fugaccs pcrscqiicvis clioros, 
Per prata, per valles Achivas, 

rieridum, tiaiidasque Nymphns ! 



29 



Quo vcr.'is crrans ? Thrciciis jugis 
A^isas opacis robora frondihus, 
Ornosvc, qiui' fliorda' sequaces 
CEagvii sahicre vatis ? 

Ant i'ontis oram Castalii pvcmis, 
Ilaurirc tentaiis, nee vetita maiiu, 
Undas sacratas ; et Canicnis 
Do proprio vclut aiiine libans ? 

Lustrasve Atlicnis iiiclj'ta Palladis 
Delubi-a, sanctos aut Acaderaire 
Lucos percrras, et Platonis 
Grandiloqui vencrare sedes"? 

Quocunquc cursum, per tumidum mare 
Per grata Musis litora, per juga, 
Flectas, memento Patriae., nam 
To procul, atquc domi, tuetur.* 



*To E. E., TRAVELLING IN GrEECE. 

thou of arduous lot and fair, 

Whose step tlirough Grecian vale pursues 

The graceful phantoms wandering there, 
The timid Nympli, the fleeting Muse, — 

Where turn'st thou ? Seeking to explore 

On Thracian hills the oak trees' shade, 
Or ashen groves, that moved of yore 

As the high strains of Orpheus bade ? 

Or by the fount of Castaly, 

With hand whose right the Muses gave. 
Drinking and pouring gratefully 

Libations from their own briglit wave ? 

Or wandering where Ilissus' stream 

Murmurs by Pallas' shrine of fame, 
Kncjpl'st thou in bowers of Academe, 

Invoking Plato's mighty name ? 

In valleys to the Muses dear, 

On mountain height or swelling sea. 
Think of thy land, for, far or near. 

With looks of love she follows thee! 

[Translated by S. G. V,. 



30 



Of the occupations of his leisure hours, through his 
many years of mercantile life in Boston and Washington, 
we know only from conjecture. The familiarity he shows, 
in his jiublished works, with history and with Latin, 
Italian, and English literature, indicates clearly enough 
what they must often have been. 

AVe know that he was always devoted to his friends ; 
and an aftcctionate, faithful, and dutiful son. During the 
declining years of his parents, he resided constantly with 
them, refused offers of emolument which would have 
separated him from them, and in his tender reverence, 
almost filled to them the place of the daughter they had 
lost. lie was a loving brother, unwearied in his atten- 
tions to any one of his family in distress or laboring under 
disease, and constantly and in every way thoughtful and 
kind. He was always mindful of the poor, and most 
liberal in his charities, both of time and money. 

Indeed his peculiar and distinguishing virtue was a 
gentle benevolence, an affectionate interest in others — 
friends or strangers, especially in such as he could effect- 
ually aid. Hence his life was never unfruitful; when he 
was living most for himself it was when preparing to live 
better for others. lie had a most catholic spirit ; though 
strongly attached, by education and by habit, to the 
orthodoxy of a Church Liturgy, he had unbounded charity 
for those who differed from him, cither in believing more 
or in holding to less. 

One of those who knew him most intimately, says — 
"The generous feelings of ]Mr. Bulfinch and his warm 
sympathy with the oppressed, made him deeply interested 
in the Anti-slavery movement, in its early period of diffi- 



culty and discourngemcnt. Afterwards, his gentle spirit 
turned grsidually from the discussions that ensued, to the 
quiet literary pursuits that he loved so well. Not long- 
since, when a friend asked him why he did not join in the 
triumphs of the party of which he was an early member, 
he replied, 'I stood by Mr. Garrison when it was danger- 
ous to a man's social position to be seen in his company. 
Now, he has friends enough, and does not need me.' " 

The manners of Mr. Bulfinch were natural and unas- 
suming, uniting the urbanity which comes from daily 
intercourse with men of the world, from all countries 
and of all pursuits, with the refinement which belongs 
to those of gentle birth, and the delicacy which, even 
in the roughest natures, springs from high and pure 
thoughts and elevating studies, and especially from 
a familiarity with the best literature of ancient and 
modern nations. Whoever has carefully observed young 
men sfathered tosrether in laroe numbers from all walks 
of life, and all parts of a great country, and living in 
intimate intercourse with each other and with the gentle- 
men and scholars who sometimes have, and always'should 
have, charge of their discipline and instruction, will recog- 
nize this truth, — will remember the beautiful change 
which shows itself in their language, and which gradually 
comes over their countenance, their movements, their 
manners, and their whole bearing. This is- the most 
important eifect of a public education; and a most essen- 
tial element in the agencies Avhicli produce it is the 
character and manners of the teachers, showing that it 
is even more important that they should be gentlemen 
than that they should be distinguished scholars. How 



many young men, who fail of attaining scholarship, are 
elevated, refinetl and made gentlemen by these influences 
of a truly liberal education. 

In reference to Mr. Bulfinch's first printed work, 
"Hebrew Lyrical History," he says, in a letter to a 
friend, "In order to do justice to the investigation, I 
studied German, and imported several volumes of the 
critics of that languao;e, that I mioht have the benefit of 
their aid. I was careful to keep my learning out of sight, 
and not one word of any foreign language deforms my 
page." 

Mr. Bulfinch seems to have taken his first idea of his 
Avorks upon Mythology from a sentence of Burke, 
which he liked to quote: "The Grecian Mythology is 
so intimately connected Avitli the Avorks of the greatest 
poets, that it Avill continue to be interesting as long as 
classical poetry exists, and must form an indispensable 
part of the education of the man of literature and of the 
gentleman." The plan Avhich came from this suggestion 
was enlarged so as to include the j)oetic fables of the 
Middle Ages, for Italy, France, the British Islands, and 
the North of Europe. His object shall be stated in his 
own words. 

In the preface to the Age of Fable, he says — 
"If that which tends to make us liapjjier and better can be called useful, 

then we claim that epithet for our sul)ject. For Mytholojxy is the handmaid 

to literature ; and literature is one of the best allies of virtue and promoters 

of happiness. ***** 

" Without a knowledge of mytholog}' much of the elegant literature of 

our own language ca-mot be understood and appreciated. * * * 

"But how is mythology to be taught to one who docs not learn it 
tln-ough the medium of tlie langmges of Greece and Rome"? 



"Our book is an attempt to solve this problem, by telling- the stories of 
mythology in such a manner as to make them a source of amusement. 
We have endea^■ored to tell them correctly, according to the ancient 
authorities, so that when the reader finds tlicm referred to he may not be 
at a loss to recognize the reference. Thus we hope to teach mythology 
not as a study, but as a relaxation from study; to give our work the charm 
of a story-book, yet, by means of it, to impart a knowledge of an important 
branch of education. ***** 

" It is not for the learned, nor for the theologian, nor for the philosopher, 
but for the reader of English literature, of either sex, who wishes to com- 
prehend the allusions so frequently made by public speakers, lecturers, 
essayists, and poets, and those which occur in polite conversation." 

In the prefixce to the Age of Chivalry, the author says, 

" It is believed that this presentation of a literature wliicli held unrivalled 
SAvay over the imaginations of our ancestors, for many centuries, will not be 
without benefit to the reader, in addition to the amusement it may afford. 
Tlie tales, thougli not to be trusted for their facts, are worthy of all credit as 
pictures of manners ; and it is beginning to be held that the manners and 
modes of thinking of an age are a more important part of its history than 
the conflicts of its peoples, generally leading to no result. Besides this, the 
literature of romance is a ti'casure-house of poetical material, to which 
modern poets frc(juently resort." 

In the Legends of Chark^magne, he adds, — 

"Besides the education whicli scliools and colleges impart, there is still 
another kind necessary to completeness. It is that Avhich has for its object 
a knowledge of polite literature. In the intercourse of polished society a 
young person will more frequently need an acquaintance with the creations 
of fancy than with the discoveries of science or the speculations of philosophy. 

"In an age when intellectual darkness enveloped Western Europe, a con- 
stellation of brilliant writers arose in Italy. Of these, Pulci, Boiardo, and 
Ariosto took for their subjects the romantic fables which had for many ages 
been transmitted in the lays of bards and the legends of monkish chroniclers. 
These fables they arranged in oi'der, adorned with the embellishments of 
fancy, amplified from their own invention, and stamped with immortality. 
It may safely be asserted, that as long as civilization shall endure, these 
productions will retain their place among the most cherished creations of 
human genius. 

" This volume is intended to carry out the same design as the two preced- 
ing works. Like them it aspires to a higher character than that of a work 
of mere amusement. It claims to be useful, in acquainting its readers with 
the subjects of the works of the great poets of Italy. Some knowledge of 
these is expected of every well-educated young person." 



34 



The design of the author is very faithfully and very 
successfully carried out. In the introductions and prefaces 
he gives enough of the true history to prevent the reader 
from mistaking the fancies of the poets for the literal 
truth of facts. With the highest purpose and the purest 
and most delicate taste he instructs and amuses without 
for a moment misleading. And he writes in a style true 
to his own character, and in clear, transparent, beautiful 
Enojlish. 

These books have deservedly become classics, and every 
library for young persons would be very deficient Avithout 
them. In the Age of Fable, particularly, the author has 
done a thing which has often been attempted, and never 
before so satisfactorily performed. He has gathered from 
tlie dangerous mythology of the Greeks and Eomans, 
with discriminate and tasteful selection, that and that 
only which every well educated person ought to know. 

Mr. Bulfinch kept on his laborious, useful course to 
the end. He sometimes talked of resigning his place in 
the bank, not from indolence or weariness, but that he 
might have more time for his friends and for study, and 
lest he should be found doing ill the work he was scrupu- 
lously resolved to do faithfully. 

Looking back upon the events which preceded his 
birth, we may learn one of the lessons that Heaven is 
still teaching us. The loss of their wealth seemed to his 
parents a misfortune, and was felt as such. But, without 
that loss, would his mother have become so single-hearted 
and saint-like ? Would Thomas have been, in mind and 



O'J 



in spirit, so Avell and so liigbly educated ? Would he 
have become the patient, diligent, thoughtful student 
that he was, so full of feeling for the trials and hardships 
of others, so sympathetic, so ready to aid and so capable 
of aiding ? 

It Avas happy for him, it is happy for us that he con- 
tinued, to the last, in the entire and cheerful possession of 
all his faculties; with no wandering, no weakness, no 
melancholy, no estrangement, no forgctfulness ; genial to 
his friends, kind and gracious to all. 

Our last remembrance of him is as pleasant as the 
pleasantest. To us, and to all, he was, to the end, a true 
man, a Christian gentleman. 



The following touching lines are by a member of Mr. 
Bulfinch's class, at the " Christian Union," of which their 
writer has a grateful remembrance. He attended the 
funeral and conveys in these verses his impressions of the 
scene. 

THOMAS BULFINCH. 

A TKIBUTE. 

BV IIIAKLKS WIl.l.rAM liUTI.En. 

This is not deatli. 'Tis pleasant sleep. 
O why should we who love him weep i 
This frame may sink back to the sod, 
The soul has risen to its God! 

How beautiful these featui'cs ai'e! 
And radiant as sonic morning star, 
That from the east its light has shed 
To tell the gloom of night has lied! 



30 



How beautiful his life has been, — 
So free from touch and deed of sin; 
How beautiful the soul-lit smile 
That lingers on tliese lips the while! 

How beautiful his presence seemed, 
The true ideal we have dreamed 
A human life perchance might be. 
Though tossed on Time's tempestuous sea. 

How fitting ai'C these hymns and prayei'S, 
That speak his rest from mortal cares; 
For he has passed the valley dim, 
And sung, ere this, the triumph hymn. 

One look, — the last we give him here; 
Yet in the spirits' gathering sphere. 
In worlds where not one dear life dies, 
Our risen friend shall meet our eyes! 



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